


it was all going to end bad anyway

by soulless_puppy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean POV, Gen, Hurt!Sam, M/M, Mild Gore, implied wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 15:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14115729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_puppy/pseuds/soulless_puppy
Summary: After rescuing Adam, Sam is in bad shape and Dean is just trying to keep it together.





	it was all going to end bad anyway

Adam was patient during the long hours on the road. He was quiet too, in a somber way that unsettled Dean even as it reminded him of Sam.

They were driving west toward the Rockies as desperate fugitives, barely hoping they wouldn’t be followed by cops or worse. Dean was making for one of Bobby’s old foxholes, some place where they could heal for a couple weeks and survive on military MREs and canned goods. Whiskey too, hopefully.

Every time Dean glanced at Sam, he only saw the damage. The cuts were deep and ugly and nearly from hand to elbow. Dean had wrapped them tight enough to keep Sam from bleeding out, but soon they were going to have to pull over so he could stitch the wounds closed. Blood was seeping through the cloth, dark and sticky. Sam said he didn’t think there was nerve damage, but they both knew there would be. He could lose the use of his gun hand and his spare, and then Dean would be his only defense, and a piss poor one at that.

Adam seemed to be in better shape, thank God. He was bruised and scraped, covered in filth. Nothing he couldn’t get over. The mottled purple on his face just added to the weirdness of his existence. When Dean looked at him, he felt as though he was staring back through time to see his past self, young and brash and beat to hell. Shaggy crew cut darkened with blood and grime. Angry green eyes. John Winchester’s jawline, unmistakable.

——  
The fucking corpse munchers had locked Adam in a crypt, their version of putting leftovers in the fridge. Dean broke him out and neither of them made much of their reunion. They got back to the Milligan house in time to see the ghouls playing with their food and gloating over their revenge. Sam was splayed out on the kitchen table, arms spilling out blood. So much blood.

Two head shots and the monsters dropped, and Dean used kitchen rags to staunch the bleeding until he got Sam into the car. Within minutes they were on the run from the cops. The neighbors had heard the gunshots.

——  
“I know we’re making good time but I kinda need your expertise right now,” Sam grunted. “Or an ER,” he added, like an afterthought.

“I know, Sammy, hang in there.” There was nothing else for Dean to say. The stretch of road was too empty. They would be too exposed if they stopped now.

Sam winced when they drove over a pothole. He looked like he was struggling to stay conscious.

They drove on.  
——  
They parked behind an abandoned gas station twenty minutes from the highway. It was the best Dean could do because Sam couldn’t wait any longer.

Adam watched the whole process from the backseat with interest. forty-one ugly stitches and Sam only flinched when Dean doused the wounds with rubbing alcohol. Sam rattled off some facts about ghouls and gangrene and sepsis. Dean told him to shut up and hold still while he wrapped his arms again with fresh gauze. Dean could feel Adam’s gaze; it made him want to rush the process. But Sam was in pain.

“We should’ve just driven to Bobby’s,” Sam muttered, once they were done. “We’d be there already.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m bringing this much trouble to his doorstep,” Dean replied.

“We’ve brought worse trouble to him. Demons, angels…” Sam trailed off.

“Yeah, well, you can’t exorcise cops, and you can’t blast them away with blood sigils either. So we’re not going to Bobby’s.”

Dean caught Adam’s expression as he put the first aid kit away. He felt transparent, like all of his insides were on display for amusement.

——

Sam puked in the grass as soon as he got the car door open. The winding twists and turns that had taken them up through the mountains to the cabin had been too much. Hell, twenty-one hours in the car had been too much, and Dean had kept on driving anyway.

Dean sighed and got out of the car with stiff movements. He offered Sam a water bottle and roughed his hair. He motioned to Adam before going to the trunk, and they carried in the gear together. Sam stumbled in and found one of the cots, laid down and pulled the sheet over his head. Dean couldn’t blame him.

The cabin only had two main rooms and a tiny bathroom. The kitchen area was old but clean, and although the place smelled musty, it didn’t smell like mildew. Dean looked through cabinets and drawers to inventory the sparse supplies. Plenty of food, some useful medical supplies, but no beer. He checked around for a stash of liquor and found nothing. Adam slumped onto the ugly brown couch and watched him.

“How long do we have to stay in this dump?” he asked.

“Until Sam’s better,” Dean muttered. He couldn’t believe there wasn’t at least a six pack of Pabst in the place.

“Doesn’t he need a hospital?”

“He’s just wiped out because his blood pressure’s low. He’s fine.”

Sam wasn’t fine. But Dean had an angel on his shoulder, didn’t he? Cas would answer his prayers and stop by to fix Sam up. Eventually.

They just had to wait.

——

Sam’s wounds never began to rot. Within a few days he was leaving the bandages off to let the stitches air out. Dean called him “corpse bride” and got a kick to the shin as rebuttal. Adam didn’t bother hiding the bitter way he laughed at them.

The shitty radio next to Dean’s cot only picked up two stations and both were country. There was a tiny television with a built in VCR too, but only three bootlegged tapes: True Grit, The Evil Dead, and something called Babysitter’s Revenge, which Dean assumed was either a D-list horror flick or a porno. Not Bobby’s typical entertainment selection, but more than a dozen hunters had probably stayed in that cabin over the years. Dean waved the questionable tape at Sam and winked.

“What?”

“Porn,” Dean answered. “Well, probably porn. Wanna find out?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No.”

Dean chuckled. “You’re such a prude, Sammy.”

Sam said nothing. He looked out the window to watch Adam as he wandered along the tree line.

——  
The cabin faced west, and the sunset flooded the mountain peaks in color. Sam made Dean drag a couple of the kitchen chairs out onto the porch and they watched it together. Adam was lying on the couch watching The Evil Dead for the third time. Dean took a swig of store-brand cola and tried to enjoy the moment.

“We’re wasting time here,” Sam muttered, as the world grew dark around them.

“Oh, so that’s why we’re out here,” Dean answered. He frowned at can in his hand.

Sam was sitting with his hands resting on his knees, palms facing up so his stitches wouldn’t be irritated. The pose was incongruous with his attitude, too restful and accepting. Sam was a ball of angry tension on the inside, Dean didn’t need to look at him to know it. He could feel it in Sam’s presence.

He took another drink before he spoke again. “You’re beat to hell. We need a few days off, for once.”

“We can’t just take days off, Dean! Every day we waste just gives Lilith the chance to get one more step ahead of us.”

“If there was something we could do, the angels would let us know. Or you know, Ruby would call you up and offer to suck your dick and give us a clue something…”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t act so insulted, Sammy,” Dean replied caustically.

Sam went inside and then Dean was alone.

——  
In true Winchester fashion, Adam didn’t talk about what happened to his mom, or about the monsters with stolen faces who killed her, or whatever memories he had of John. He slept at odd hours, complained about the food, and watched The Evil Dead, and sometimes True Grit when Dean commandeered the TV. Dean was honestly surprised the kid hadn’t tried to run off yet.

Sam tried to engage with him, he really tried. He asked about hobbies and favorite books and other neutral topics. None of it went anywhere.

Dean didn’t understand why he bothered.

——

The color didn’t return to Sam’s face over the next couple days. He ate as many of the cabin’s rations as Dean, maybe even more, but he remained anemic-looking and nauseous. Then he lost his appetite altogether. Dean pestered him and checked the stitches frequently, but they seemed fine. He thought about taking Sam to a hospital, but the nearest one was hours away and they’d be conspicuous. There used to be a clinic in town but it had closed down a few years back, according to a note on the fridge.

Dean stopped praying. Cas apparently had better things to do. He called Bobby instead, and learned that the bloody scene they’d left behind had attracted a lot of attention. He hung up on Bobby when he suggested ditching the impala for a while, and laid back on his cot, feeling like the frustration was going to give him a headache.

“I’m gonna go get some fresh air,” Sam said, rising from the couch. Dean said nothing. That was the third time Sam stepped out for air that day, even though it seemed to exhaust him. Dean suspected that Sam was calling Ruby whenever he went out. Every time he came back inside he was in a worse mood, so she apparently wasn’t picking up. There was a time when Dean might have considered that a good thing. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Adam came out of the bathroom and headed for the TV.

“If you turn on Evil Dead again, I will kick your ass,” Dean muttered.

“Okay, Dean.” He popped the tape in anyway.

Dean heaved himself off his cot and then froze as the Impala growled to life outside. He ran out and shouted Sam’s name, grabbed the door handle before Sam had backed the car more than a few feet.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

Sam rolled down the window. “I’m just going into town, dude. Relax.” He looked as bad as the day they’d arrived, maybe worse. Pale and clammy with dark smudges under his eyes. His hands were shaking on the wheel. Something clicked in Dean’s head.

“You’re in withdrawal, aren’t you.”

Sam swore and started backing the car again. Dean reached in and grabbed the wheel, stumbling.

“Answer me, Sam!”

Sam stopped the car. He didn’t look at Dean. “I’m just going into town,” he said slowly.

Dean opened the door and grabbed Sam by the jacket. “You’ve been calling Ruby. You meeting up with her?”

Sam glared up at him. “Yeah.”

“Like hell, you are. Get out.” Dean tried to haul him out, and Sam fought it with what little strength he had left. He yelped when the effort wrenched his stitches.

“Stop it! You don’t understand, I need to do this!” Sam shoved at Dean as he left the car, then leaned against it and panted. “I need to see her.”

“To get a fix?”

“I’m not on drugs, Dean!”

“You’re on something!” he shouted back.

Sam didn’t look he had the energy to keep arguing. He gave Dean the classic puppy-eyed look, heavily layered in suffering. “Come with me. Drive me down there and everything will be okay. I’ll be strong again.”

Dean clenched his jaw and looked away, staring at the cabin. He hated this place. He hated Adam. For once in his life he felt like he might even hate Sam. He swallowed back the anger and sighed. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get what you need and bring it back.”

“What? No, You —“

“I’m not negotiating, Sam. That’s your only option.” He grabbed Sam by the arm — above the elbow, careful of his stitches — and walked him toward the cabin. Sam quit struggling and protesting after a few steps and let Dean lead him all the way to the couch.

Dean shut off the TV and put Adam in charge. He nearly said their dad’s old spiel word for word, right down to watch out for Sammy. Sam gave a bitchface that would have made Dean laugh under other circumstances. As it was, Sam looked dead. That was the only reason Dean agreed to fetch whatever Sam needed from the black-eyed skank.

He didn’t want to think about why Sam needed it. Not now, with his life clearly at risk. They could deal with it later. Hell, maybe Dean could find some kind of rehab to help Sam get clean.

——

Ruby gave Dean a flask, an old silver one like the ones Dean kept in the trunk. He started to open it, but she snatched it back and called him a dumbass. She didn’t give it back until he promised not to tamper with it. He had half a mind to stab her in the face.

Whatever she had Sam addicted to, it was bad. Dean could feel the badness crawling on his skin during the drive back, like knowing something nasty was stalking him during a hunt. He pulled over at the turn off for the cabin and spent nearly ten minutes debating whether he should open the flask and examine the contents. He realized there was no point in knowing what was inside if Sam was going to waste away without it.

He could still fix this later, when Sam was in better shape.

The drive up the mountain was more of a bitch than Dean remembered and he swore at every piece of gravel that struck his baby. That was the last straw, dammit. They were leaving tomorrow whether Sam was in fighting shape or not.

The end of the day blanketed the woods in gloom, and the cabin looked like it had been empty for years when Dean pulled up. He pocketed the flask and headed toward the steps, and didn’t notice the blood on the screen door until his hand was on the door handle.

“Sam?” he said, and drew his gun. He stepped inside.

What used to be Adam lunged at him from his right, and took a bullet between the eyes. It’s sleeves were soaked in blood to the elbows, and blood still ran down its chin when it lay dead.

I never checked him for bites, Dean realized. He stepped over the body.

“Sammy?”

There was no answer from the back room.

There was nothing but blood.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not entirely satisfied with this one, but I’m putting it out there anyway. Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated!


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